Christiana

And, with that, he was back.

It's mid-July, a few weeks after the day I picked up my sorry behind and took the Greyhound from Atlanta to Nashville for the last time. I was offered a job near the airport doing- what else?- software development. I signed a lease on a house that my friends lovingly refer to as "The Cabin" some 45 minutes southeast of the city, a small, two-bedroom number with a covered deck and five acres of diverse trees and bird feeders. I woke up this past Saturday, an idea for a short story mumbling in the back of my mind, and sat down in my writing room (can you believe that? I have a writing room. Just a desk and a chair.) and turned out what I consider to be my first piece of fiction. Ever. And you know what? It's not lousy.

So here I am, sitting on my deck with a gas lamp whispering sweet nothings and the night air sweeping a soft 75 degrees, drinking Yuenglings (I just looked at the bottle- I meant to get Black and Tan), a gift of my not-all-that-distant past, smoking cigarettes that I know I shouldn't be smoking, and "surfing" on my newly-installed internet connection. I used to complain quite a good bit about my life, at least when asked, in subtle, humble tones; now I gently explain that I have everything that I want and, though I am not what one might refer to as "happy," I continue by saying that which I firmly believe: I have absolutely no excuse to be anything but happy.

And I am not happy, but I am calmer than I've been in years (at least since mid-high school), and I am well on my way to paying of all of my debt. In fact, just today I received word that I am to work directly with a designer in Nashville in assembling websites in an ad hoc manner from here on out. The additional funds, while supplemental and nothing more, will ease the otherwise bothersome burden of hefty debt payments.

It's nearly two hours past my bedtime. I need to change my cell phone number to a 615 area code, and soon. I'm desperate to be rid of Atlanta forever.